Mercy On Your Soul
by Namaste
Summary: "How do you figure a man like that ends up dying alone out on the prairie?" Chester asked. Mr. Dillon took the photo and stared at it. "Same way anyone else does, I suppose. Sometimes it seems like things go wrong for so long, you don't know how to put them right."


_Author's Note: Still playing around with getting different characters' voices right. I'm calling this a standalone for now, but am looking at ways to take this story further, so it may end up being the first chapter of something longer._

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The lanterns had been turned down, but Chester didn't really need much light to make his way across the stable. Neither did his horse, who headed straight for his stall as soon as Chester swung himself out of the saddle.

"Reckon you've got some feed left in your bucket do you?" Chester kept his voice low, in case some cowboy was sleeping in the hay loft overhead. Most Saturday nights, Moss might make an extra dollar from hands who'd decided they'd rather drink then pay for a warm bed, and those men could be downright ornery if anyone woke them before sunup.

The horse had his nose down in the bucket, and Chester patted him on his flank as he made his way around the side. The horse moved over slightly, giving up a little more room as if he knew that Chester could get the saddle off faster if he had space to move.

Chester flipped the stirrup out of the way, then uncinched the saddle. The horse shook himself a little as Chester lifted the saddle off his back and put it on the rack. It hadn't been a hard ride, but it had been longer than Chester had expected. Mr. Dillon had to go out to Fort Dodge to meet with some new captain out there. It seemed like there was always some new officer or the other being assigned, all of them wet behind the ears and expecting Mr. Dillon to respond to their every whim, as if he didn't have enough to do. Why, just keeping the soldiers separated from the cowboys on payday was enough for a body some days.

The latest one sent out troopers to demand that Mr. Dillon show up on three different occasions, until the marshal felt like he couldn't put it off anymore.

Mr. Dillon's big buckskin was in his usual stall now, though, so whatever it was the captain wanted wasn't so important as to keep him out of town for long. The buckskin looked over at Chester's horse and whinnied a bit at him. The smaller bay took his head out of his feed bucket long enough to kind of shake his head in response and Chester took the chance to slip the bit out of his mouth and take the bridle off him.

Sometimes Chester wondered if the two horses had some way to sort of talk to each other out there on the prairie, or if they looked out for each other. They was just animals, but they was awful smart ones, especially Mr. Dillon's. If Magnus was there, he'd probably say he could understand horse talk, and Chester wouldn't be half surprised if he really did. Magnus always did like animals better than people. Even when he was a boy, Magnus could tame even the wildest critters.

"They's easy to understand," Magnus had said one day when he had some wolf cub tailing after him. He might've been 10 or 11 years old then, his raggedy britches barely reaching past his knees. Uncle Wesley was always complaining that Magnus grew too fast, so he didn't seem to mind when Magnus starting spending most of his time out in the hill country.

"They's like us. They gets tired, so they wants to rest. They gets hungry, so they wants to eat."

"That one's gonna eat you soon," Chester had said. The cub was more than half growed. "He's growling at you."

Magnus laughed. "That's your belly growling, not him. Ain't you et today yet?"

"Not since breakfast. I think Uncle Wesley forgot."

Chester felt his stomach give a little now too, giving him another reminder he hadn't had anything to eat except for some jerky most of the day today either. At least all those missed meals at Uncle Wesley's had made him learn to cook. Most of the time, Uncle Wesley wouldn't think about eating unless he got hungry, and he didn't get hungry nearly often enough to suit Chester. Once Chester learned how to rustle up enough grub for a stew, he didn't have to wait for Uncle Wesley any more.

This time it was a greenhorn to blame for him going hungry, as far as Chester was concerned. He'd come into the marshal's office not more than an hour after Mr. Dillon had left, yammering on about finding a body out on the prairie.

The fool hadn't looked around to see if there was sign of anyone else being around, couldn't say how he'd been shot, hadn't gone within six feet of the feller. He hadn't even had the decency to give him a proper burial.

"I figured the marshal should see him first."

"Well the marshal isn't here, and might not be here before nightfall."

"Somebody better come and take care of him." The greenhorn's hat was brand new, without a speck of dust or dirt on it. The gun belt was new too - shiny and stiff leather that he probably thought made him look like a cowboy rather than a dude who'd got hisself lost.

"You figure this dead man is gonna get up and walk away?" Chester wondered if it would do any good to ride out to the fort and try to fetch Mr. Dillon back.

"I heard wolves last night," the man said. "I hate to think what they'll do to that poor man's body."

"Maybe you should've thought of that before you left him out there in the open."

Chester finally decided he'd have to go out there himself, see what he could do. It took more'n an hour longer to get there than it should've, because the greenhorn couldn't remember exactly where he'd been. And once Chester had looked the poor man over, the greenhorn said he didn't have time to help with the burying.

"I've got somewhere I'm supposed to be back in Dodge," he'd said. "I'm already late."

Chester didn't bother pointing out to him that he rode off in the wrong direction. He'd figure it out sooner or later. Hopefully later.

He tried to pick a nice spot to bury the dead feller, but the man had picked a hard place to die. Chester had been able to figure out what had happened before he'd even gotten close to the man - the old Colt still in his hand, his body crumpled backwards into the tall grass, his hat and part of his head blowed off, his eyes staring up at the sky. His clothes must have been a fine quality when he bought them. The wool was soft, with a finer stitch than Chester had ever seen on anything outside of Miss Kitty's dresses.

There was an old canvas bag set down next to him with a clean shirt and a pair of socks and a few other odds and ends. A Bible was on top of everything else with a torn piece of brown packing paper sticking out of it. Chester opened it. St. Luke Chapter 15. Someone had marked up some of the verses, telling about the prodigal son. He unfolded the paper.

"May God have mercy on your soul," the man had written, "though he had none on mine."

He'd signed it. Robert L. Greerson. At least they could tell his people what happened to him, if anyone ever came looking for him, Chester thought. He put the note back in the same spot in the Bible. The man - Greerson, Chester reminded himself - didn't have anything else. Just empty pockets. Not even a penny.

There weren't no trees nearby, so Chester buried him on the gentle eastern slope of a ridge of land nearby that looked out over the rolling hills and left a cluster of rocks as a headstone, in case someone ever wanted to find Robert Greerson.

There was a nearly full moon as he rode back, the night cool but not cold. The street lamps along Front Street drawing him in for the last half mile.

Chester patted his horse again, but the horse ignored him this time, keeping his head down in his feed.

"Reckon I'll go find myself something to eat too," he said. He brought Greerson's bag with him. Mr. Dillon would want to look it over, see if there was some way to get it back to the right people.

All the restaurants and cafes seemed to be closed already, and the office was dark, so either Mr. Dillon had gone to bed early or more likely he was making the rounds or was over at the Long Branch. Chester figured that if he didn't have any food handy, at least a beer would be something to put in his belly.

The Long Branch was half empty, with a couple of serious-looking card games going on at the tables and some of the boys from the Peters' ranch working their way through a bottle over at the bar.

Mr. Dillon saw him when he walked in and nodded. Miss Kitty turned to follow his gaze.

"I was beginning to think Matt was going to have to arrange a search party by morning," she said. "You want a beer?" She called over to Sam to bring one before Chester had even sat down.

"That'd taste mighty good, Miss Kitty. Thank you."

"Moss said you rode out this morning. You end up having to go halfway across Kansas?" Mr. Dillon pushed his hat back on his head, the way he always did when he was feeling good about things.

"Just about. You know I think that greenhorn who came looking for you couldn't find the sun on a clear day. I'm surprised he could find his way west of the Mississippi, never mind find Dodge."

Sam brought over the beer and Chester took a nice long drink. It helped, some.

"Go on," Mr. Dillon reminded him.

"That feller he'd found was just some poor man who must've figured his luck run out. Anyone could see he'd killed hisself. You know, I think that greenhorn must never have seen a man been shot before."

"Probably some rich man who paid someone else to fight for him during the war," Miss Kitty said. "Probably never got his hands dirty a day in his life."

"Wouldn't surprise me none," Chester said. "That feller didn't have much with him, but here it is, Mr. Dillon." He handed over the bag. Mr. Dillon put it on the table and opened it. He took out the Bible and the message.

"At least we have a name," Mr. Dillon said. "That's more than we usually get."

Miss Kitty took the Bible and leafed through the pages, keeping her finger in the spot where the note had been. "Family history," she said, pointing out the names printed in fading ink on the front pages. "Looks like he has a sister somewhere. Or had, maybe."

Mr. Dillon looked over her shoulder. "We can at least try to find her, anyway."

Miss Kitty flipped some more pages and came to a stop. She held out a photograph that had been tucked between the pages of St. Matthew. "Think this is her? Or a sweetheart maybe?"

There were two people in the photograph: a woman with light colored hair and a dress covered in lace. A man in uniform stood next to her. A light-colored cavalry man's outfit. An officer's sword and sash and a captain's bars on the collar.

"I don't know if that's her, but I'm pretty sure that's him," Chester said. "How do you figure a man like that ends up dying alone out on the prairie?"

Mr. Dillon took the photo and stared at it. "Same way anyone else does, I suppose. Sometimes it seems like things go wrong for so long, you don't know how to put them right." He handed the photo back to Miss Kitty. "At least we've got a name and a picture. That's more than we have to go on most times."

Miss Kitty looked down at the Bible, her fingers tracing another set of verses that had been marked up. "Blessed are the poor in spirit, for their's is the kingdom of heaven." She placed the photo back where it had been and closed the Bible. "We need to find this sister of his Matt, for his sake."

Chester thought about the hillside where he'd been, and the pile of rocks he left behind. He knew he could find it again. He'd always hated the idea of anyone dying alone. "Yeah," he said. "I think Miss Kitty is right, Mr. Dillon. We need to find her."

"It won't change things, you know. Not for him."

"It will for her," Miss Kitty said. "At least that'll be something."

"And something's always better'n nothing, ain't that right, Mr. Dillon?"

Mr. Dillon grinned a little. "That's right, Chester. It is." He finished his own beer and then nodded. "It is."


End file.
